He went towards her as she sat at her writing-table turning over books and papers.
"Just look, Frank," as she held out to him a packet daintily tied up with blue ribbons; "these are all verses of yours, arranged according to order. When we have our silver wedding I shall have them printed and bound. These on cream-colored paper were written during our engagement, and these different scraps, white and blue and gray, were written since our marriage, when you take anything that comes, thinking I suppose that it is good enough for Mrs. Gertrude."
She looked up at him with a smile. He bent down over her,
"And now I shall buy a very special kind of paper for my next verses, Gertrude."
"Why?"
"Bright, like the little bundles the storks carry under their wings. And I shall write on it--"
She grew crimson. "A cradle-song," she finished softly.
He nodded and put her hand to his lips. But she threw both arms round his neck. "Then it would be sweet and home-like, Frank. Then we should love each other better than ever--if that were possible."
"Here, little wife, I wrote this for you today in the field in the rain." He took out his note-book from his pocket and put it in her hand.
"I will just go and see what the judge is about, the rascal," he called back from the door.